Party Crashers

by Stephanie Bond

  Jolie pulled herself out of her dismal thought loop and turned toward Hannah and Carlotta.

  “The bastard isn’t here, is he?” Hannah turned her head for a quick sweep of the room.

  “I didn’t see him,” Carlotta assured her.

  “Who?” Jolie asked.

  “Her boyfriend Russell,” Carlotta said.

  “Today I’d had it,” Hannah said. “I found out where he was having lunch and confronted him while he was eating with his boss.”

  Carlotta gasped. “You didn’t.”

  Hannah nodded emphatically, her knife-earrings jingling. “Sure did. If he thinks he can simply ignore me after all I’ve put up with, he’s insane.”

  Hearing the bitterness in the woman’s voice, Jolie wondered briefly who, exactly, was the sane one. Hannah the Huntress was a tad intense.

  “What happened?” Carlotta asked.

  Hannah sighed. “He promised he was going to ask his wife for a divorce this weekend.”

  Jolie choked on a scallop.

  Carlotta turned her head and muttered, “He’s been promising to leave his wife for a year.”

  “I heard that,” Hannah declared. “Carlotta thinks I’m throwing my life away.” She scoffed. “As if her life is going somewhere.”

  Carlotta cocked her hip. “I’m not the one who spent my lunch hour accosting my married boyfriend.”

  Hannah leaned in. “When was the last time you had a boyfriend?”

  “Stalker.”

  “Prune.”

  Jolie set down her drink. “Look at the time. I guess I’d better be going. I have to go in early tomorrow to help Michael with the Manolo Blahnik appearance.”

  Carlotta looked disappointed. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Jolie hesitated, then said, “I was wondering…would the two of you like to go to a pajama party tomorrow night? My ex-boss is giving it, so it should be nice, but… we’d have to crash.” She had no legitimate reason to go other than it was something fun she could offer up to the girls. Plus she could get one over on Sammy, and the woman wouldn’t even know it.

  Was that how Carlotta felt when she crashed upscale soirees? That it was enough for her to know?

  Jolie withdrew the mangled invitation from her purse and handed it to Carlotta, who read it and looked up. “Realtor Barbie is giving a bash?”

  Jolie nodded.

  “And we’re not invited?”

  Jolie shook her head.

  Carlotta grinned. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Can you reproduce the invitation?”

  “Are you kidding?” Carlotta tapped her finger on the card. “Without raised lettering this won’t even be a challenge.”

  Jolie felt a tiny stab of guilt over planning to crash a private party, but she remembered just a handful of the times that Sammy had dismissed her and the feeling passed rather quickly. “Do you have plans, Hannah?”

  Hannah pursed her vampy mouth, then sighed. “No, I’ll come.”

  “Unless her boyfriend calls,” Carlotta muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jolie said before she could get caught in another round of crossfire.

  “Jolie,” Carlotta said, “will you be okay walking to your car?”

  Hannah gave her a strange look. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “She’s worried about my feet in these shoes,” Jolie said with a laugh. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Good night. Oh, and…thanks.”

  Carlotta gave her a secretive nod, then Jolie threaded her way back through the crowd. She kept an eye out for LeMon and other persons of interest, but saw neither. When she walked back through the reception entrance, the ticket taker was still manning his gate and gave her a friendly nod. She waved, once again having misgivings about manipulating their way into the party.

  But she did have more information to give Salyers when they talked—Jolie looked at her watch—tomorrow. She’d call the detective tomorrow. After the hoopla at the store, she’d have a few hours before the party. Enough time to put together that mailing to her former customers she’d been putting off. And to discuss a murder investigation concerning her boyfriend.

  As she retraced her steps back through the lobby, her thoughts turned to the dead woman in Gary’s car. Had she been identified? Did her family know she was missing? Did she even have family? Jolie chewed the tip of a polished nail, wondering if she were to disappear how long it would be before someone missed her. When her rent came due? When the IRS missed her tax return?

  She asked for directions to the parking garage and was sent down a hallway and a short flight of stairs to the glass door that she remembered before Carlotta had taken them the roundabout way. She pushed open the door, then walked through another, more industrial door into the parking garage. The cool night air sent shivers through her body. She rubbed her hands over her arms as she waited for the elevator. Halfway up the ramp, a family of four approached their car, their boisterous noisiness a comforting sound in the gloomy concrete structure.

  Car doors slammed, then the car with the family backed up and exited the garage. Jolie tapped her foot in the echoing silence, partly to pass time, and partly to send feeling to her toes. The elevator was on its way down, but moving slowly. Fifth floor, fourth. The glass door opened behind her, and a suited man stepped up next to her to wait for the elevator. He looked all around, including at the security camera above them, then stared straight ahead. Tiny red flags raised in her mind. Something wasn’t right. His suit was ill fitting, his fingernails were grubby, and—she glanced down—his shoes were scuffed and soiled. Her heart lurched in her chest, stealing her breath. The elevator dinged and the door slid open. He boarded first, then held the door for her.

  She stood rooted to the ground.

  “Are you comin’?” he asked.

  “No,” she murmured, then took a step toward the door leading back into the hotel. “I…forgot something.”

  He pursed his mouth, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  She shot a glance toward the security camera and stayed within its range until the elevator doors closed. According to the lights above the elevator, he rode to the third floor…where she had parked. She stood and waited for the man to drive down and exit the garage, but minutes ticked by and no man, no car. Jolie swallowed hard. Was he waiting for her by her car? In her car? If he and Gary were both there, the backseat could be crowded.

  A foursome came through the glass door and waited for the elevator. She waved them on, and a few minutes later when they drove their car down the ramp and out the exit, the hair stood up on the back of her neck. When she realized the elevator was headed back down, she turned on her heel and jogged back toward the lobby of the hotel, trying to decide between calling the police or hotel security. She stumbled through the door and up the stairs into the lobby, frantically searching for someone who looked official. A guest walked off, freeing one of the women behind the long concierge desk. Jolie headed in that direction, and the panic must have been written on her face, because when the woman looked up, she said, “May I help you?” with a look of concern.

  “There’s a m–man,” she stammered, “in the garage.”

  “Do you mean the man who’s having car trouble?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We called an auto service, it should be here shortly.”

  Jolie touched her temple. “No…I mean…” She turned and the man from the elevator was striding up behind her.

  “I called from the garage,” he said. “About the auto service?”

  “It’s on the way, sir,” the woman said. “Third floor, right?”

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  Jolie watched him walk away and felt like a fool.

  “Ma’am, did you need anything else?”

  She turned back to the desk. “Um, no. Thanks.”

  “That’s a lovely outfit,” the woman said.

  “Thanks,” she murmured. “Neiman
’s.”

  The woman smiled at someone behind Jolie. “Hello, Mr. Underwood.”

  Jolie winced.

  “Hello,” he said good-naturedly, then added, “Hi, again…Linda.”

  Jolie turned slowly, and looked up into Beck’s amused expression. Her cheeks flamed. “Hi. I, um, suppose you’re wondering why I’m, um, dressed like this.”

  “And going by a fake name?”

  “And going by a f–fake name,” she parroted.

  He crossed his arms, still smiling. “I admit I’m slightly curious.”

  She swallowed and touched her throat. “Well, my girlfriend and I were just having a little fun.”

  “You crashed,” he said with a grin.

  She nodded, thinking how childish it sounded, but willing to let him think she was childish rather than…childish and paranoid.

  He covered his mouth with his hand. “The other night at the High Museum too?”

  She nodded and flushed to her knees. “You must think that’s terrible.”

  He uncovered his mouth and was laughing. “No, just…interesting I hate these events—I can’t imagine crashing one for the fun of it.”

  Said the prince to the peasant girl. Cheeks burning, she straightened and walked past him. “I was just leaving.”

  “Wait—did you drive?”

  She nodded.

  “Valet?”

  She shook her head, thinking he probably valeted his car at the mall. “I’m in the parking garage.” The cheap seats.

  “May I walk you to your car?”

  She remembered her earlier experience and swallowed her pride. “Yes.”

  He seemed surprised, but fell into step next to her. His stride was one and a half times hers, but he paced himself, then held open the door. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his snowy shirt. He was so handsome that she couldn’t look at him, and she couldn’t not look at him, which only made her feel more like a groupie.

  “Am I taking you away from your sister?” she asked.

  “No, I was just seeing Della off. I’m living at the hotel for now.”

  “Oh.” Her mind spun at the thought of that bill.

  “You can see why I need to find a place to live,” he said.

  She looked up. “You still want to work with me?”

  He grinned and pushed open the industrial door leading into the garage. “Are you a good realtor?”

  “Yes,” she said as she passed under his arm. “Actually, I’m a broker.”

  “So you work for yourself.”

  “Yes. I’m hoping to open an office after the first of the year. For now, I’m working out of my apartment. I can give you a client reference list.” She stopped at the elevator and pushed the up button.

  “No need,” he said. “Anyone who is willing to work two jobs must be trustworthy.”

  In response, she fidgeted with the blunt ends of her wig. The man made her forget things, like how chaotic her life had become. And how numb her feet were.

  The elevator doors opened and she walked inside, thinking when he followed how strange that since Monday, their paths had crossed so many times. She could say it was kismet, and Leann would chastise her for being gullible.

  “I assumed your family already had a broker that you worked with.” She punched the button for the third floor.

  “We do,” he said simply.

  “Oh.” So he was going out of his way to give her his business. Hmm.

  “Did you have a good time tonight?” he asked.

  Strangely, she had—before the run-in with Roger LeMon, of course. She nodded. “Actually, I did, earlier in the evening. It’s obviously rote to you, but I thought it was fascinating to see all those important people in one room and to mingle as if I were one of them.” She stopped, suddenly embarrassed at what she had revealed about herself—as if Beck Underwood would be interested in her private inadequacies.

  A frown flickered across his face. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re just as important as anyone in that room.”

  She tried to joke her way past her lapse. “You probably say that to all the girls.”

  But he didn’t laugh. “No…I don’t. But then again, I find myself saying things to you that I’d never say to other…women. And I’m not quite sure why that is.”

  He seemed to be studying her, his eyes filled with a curiosity she’d seen before. He was trying to figure her out. Silently she willed him to see what no one else could see—that she was a common woman looking for an uncommon connection, for a sign that life was more than random physical interactions. She waited, her breath coming in little spurts.

  His lips parted, and just when he seemed on the verge of saying something, the elevator chimed its arrival at the third floor.

  The elevator door opened and she walked toward her car, embarrassed that the Chevy was so…unremarkable, and irritated with herself that she cared what he thought. Their footsteps echoed against the concrete, and for some reason she liked the sound of it—their own pattern.

  She closed her eyes briefly, reminding herself that there was no “their” anything. A “their” necessitated a “they,” and there was no “they.”

  She walked up to the car and glanced in the backseat before unlocking the door. Empty. She turned back and smiled. “Thank you…for everything.”

  “I only walked you to your car,” he said mildly. In the glare of the fluorescent lights, he looked tired. Which meant she must look like something from a crypt. In a wig.

  “I mean thanks for…earlier,” she said. “Covering for me when Sammy was on the verge of recognizing me.”

  “No problem,” he said, hands in the pockets of his dark slacks. “I got the feeling that it was important to you to hide your identity.” He wet his lips. “That there was more at stake than simply being able to crash a stodgy old party.”

  He looked at her as if she were transparent. She couldn’t break away from his gaze.

  “Are you interested in Roger LeMon?” he asked quietly.

  Her throat convulsed. “Not in the way you think.” Again, the urge to confide…but again, the overriding urge to protect him, and herself. To protect him from association with a terrible crime. To protect herself from making Beck Underwood a confidante.

  “In what way, then?”

  Her mind raced. “It’s…business. Did things end badly between Roger LeMon and your sister?”

  “I have no idea what she saw in the man, but I believe he broke her heart.”

  Was LeMon the source of Della Underwood’s withdrawal from society years ago?

  “What about you?” he asked.

  She looked up. “What about me?”

  “Did someone break your heart?”

  Her lips parted. Gary’s disappearance had left her wary, but heartbroken? On the other hand, it was best to let Beck know that her heart wasn’t available, largely because of Gary. “There is a man,” she said softly.

  He gave a little laugh. “There always is. Is he in trouble?”

  She nodded.

  “Ah. And does this party-crashing have something to do with it?”

  She nodded again.

  He averted his gaze, then looked back. “So…when can you and I get together? To talk about what I’m looking for. In a house, that is.”

  Despite her best efforts to be immune to him, her tongue felt gluey. “H–how about here, Sunday afternoon?”

  “One o’clock?”

  “One o’clock is fine,” she said, her heart thumping erratically.

  He grinned. “How will I know you?”

  She grinned. “Look for Jolie Goodman.”

  His grin faltered for a second. “I will.”

  Something happened then…an exchange of ions between them. She felt the charge of her body drawing energy from his, and the accompanying carnal tug. From his eyes, she knew he felt it too. She was old enough to know that to Beck, a tug was a tug; but in her confused state, a tug was open to wide misinterpreta
tion, and she couldn’t risk giving in to the temptation of his attention.

  Jolie hastily opened the car door and lowered herself into the seat, closing the door with more force than necessary. Then she started the engine, backed up, and drove away with a wave. Capturing a glimpse of Beck Underwood in her side mirror, she mulled over the written warning. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

  Hmm.

  Thirteen

  “Jolie, thank God. I thought you’d never get here.” Michael Lane’s anxiety was evident in his voice and in his hand-ruffled hair. “Customers are already starting to arrive.”

  Jolie stepped back to keep from being mowed down by a salesclerk who had jogged into the stockroom to grab more Manolo Blahnik shoe boxes. She looked at her watch. “Three hours early?”

  “These people are rabid.”

  Jolie held up the box of Mui Mui shoes. “I had to bring these back.”

  He frowned and lifted the box lid. “Wrong size?”

  She swallowed and tried not to fidget. “Just wrong for my feet.”

  He glanced at the pristine soles, then shrugged and tucked her receipt in his pocket. “I’ll process your refund as soon as I get a minute. Meanwhile, I’ll put them back in inventory.”

  Jolie nodded, relieved and a little remorseful for taking advantage of Michael’s trust.

  He handed her two silver poles with a fat black velvet rope strung between them. “Chain these on where I left off, then start waiting on customers.”

  Eager to assuage her guilt, she took the hardware, then emerged from the stockroom. Sure enough, a small crowd of people had already gathered on the edge of the shoe department, where signs had been posted to advertise the appearance. The women were tall and leggy, dressed in black so the eye was drawn to their Manolo Blahnik shoes. Both sides of the checkout counter were three-deep with shoppers holding MB boxes, and the floor was a flurry of activity. Jolie groaned inwardly, thinking this did not bode well for her blistered feet. She looked down to make sure none of the dozen or so adhesive bandages she’d applied this morning to toes and heels had crept over the sides of her sensible pumps, then shuffled forward, dragging the poles with her.